Voice -- "your father was with us."

"And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestly regarding her.

"Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?"

"No, I only wanted to see -- Is not it very late? I must go and

dress."

"It is only a quarter past four" showing his watch -- "and you are

not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an

hour at Northanger must be enough."

She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be

detained, though her dread of further questions made her, for the

first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked

slowly up the gallery. "Have you had any letter from Bath since

I saw you?"

"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully

to write directly."

"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I

have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise --

the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing,

however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is

very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the

dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the

most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that

Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at

it, I suppose?"

"No."

"It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing.

After a short silence, during which he had closely observed her,

he added, "As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise

curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for

my mother's character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour

to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman.

But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this.

The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not

often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would

prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her

a great deal?"

"Yes, a great deal. That is -- no, not much, but what she did say

was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly" (slowly, and with

hesitation it was spoken), "and you -- none of you being at home

-- and your father, I thought -- perhaps had not been very fond of

her."

"And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick eye fixed on

hers), "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence --

some" -- (involuntarily she shook her head) -- "or it may be --

of something still less pardonable." She raised her eyes towards

him more fully than she had ever done before. "My mother's illness,"

he continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden.

The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious

fever -- its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in

short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended

her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed

great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were

called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance

for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the

progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were both at home)

saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness

to her having received every possible attention which could spring

from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in

life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance

as to return only to see her mother in her coffin."

"But your father," said Catherine, "was he afflicted?"

"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not

attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was

possible for him to -- we have not all, you know, the same tenderness

of disposition -- and I will not pretend to say that while she

lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his

temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was

sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her

death."

"I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very

shocking!"

"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such

horror as I have hardly words to -- Dear Miss Morland, consider

the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What

have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in

which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.

Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your

own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education

prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could

they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this,

where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where

every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies,

and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss

Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"

They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame

she ran off to her own room.

CHAPTER 25

The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.

Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened

her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their

several disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled.

Most bitterly did she cry. It was not only with herself that

she was sunk -- but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even

criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must despise her forever.

The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with the

character of his father -- could he ever forgive it? The absurdity

of her curiosity and her fears -- could they ever be forgotten? She

hated herself more than she could express. He had -- she thought

he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown something

like affection for her. But now -- in short, she made herself as

miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the

clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give

an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The

formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only

difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more

attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted comfort more,

and he looked as if he was aware of it.

The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness;

and her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She

did not learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned

to hope that it would never transpire farther, and that it might not

cost her Henry's entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly

fixed on what she had with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing

could shortly be clearer than that it had been all a voluntary,

self-created delusion, each trifling circumstance receiving